Gypsy Breynton Part 8

Just then Gypsy fell asleep, with her head on the bottom of the boat; and the next she knew it was broad day, and a dear, familiar voice, from somewhere, was calling,--

"Gypsy!--Why, Gypsy!"

"How do you do?" said Gypsy, sleepily, sitting up straight.

Tom was standing on the sh.o.r.e. He did not say another word. He jumped into an old mud-scull, that lay floating among the bushes, and paddled up to her before she was wide enough awake to speak.

"Why, Gypsy Breynton!"

"I've been walking in my sleep," said Gypsy, with a little laugh; "I came out here to save Winnie from upsetting in a milk-pitcher, and then I woke up, and I _did_ forget to lock the boat, and I couldn't get ash.o.r.e."

"How long have you been here?" Tom was very pale.

"Since a little before two. There was a splendid sunrise, only it was rather cold, and I didn't know where I was at first, and I--well, I'm glad you're come."

"Put on my coat over that. Lean up against my arm--so. Don't try to talk,"

said Tom, in a quick, business-like tone. But Tom was curiously pale.

"Why, there's no harm done, Tom, dear," said Gypsy, looking up into his face.

"I can't talk about it, Gypsy--I _can't_, I thought, I----"

Tom looked the other way to see the view, and did not finish his sentence.

"You don't suppose she's going to be a somnambulist?" asked Mr. Breynton.

This was the first time he had remembered to be worried over any of Gypsy's peculiarities all day. He had spent so much time in looking at her, and kissing her, and wiping his spectacles.

"No, indeed," said her mother; "it was nothing in the world but popped-corn. The child will never have another such turn, I'll venture."

And she never did.

It is needless to say that n.o.body scolded Gypsy for forgetting to lock the boat. She was likely enough to remember the incident. She had, perhaps, received a severe punishment for so slight a negligence, but the reader may rest a.s.sured that the boat was always locked thereafter when Gypsy had anything to do with it.

CHAPTER VI

UP IN THE APPLE TREE

"Gypsy! Gypsy!"

"What's wanted?"

"Where are you?"

"Here."

"I don't know where 'here' is."

"Well, you'll find out after a while."

Winnie trotted along down the garden-path, and across the brook. "Here"

proved to be the great golden-russet tree. High up on a gnarled old branch, there was a little flutter of a crimson and white gingham dress, and a merry face peeping down through the dainty pink blossoms that blushed all over the tree. It looked so pretty, framed in by the bright color and glistening sunlight, and it seemed to fit in so exactly with the fragrance and the soft, dropping petals, and the chirping of the blue-birds overhead, that I doubt if even Mrs. Surly would have had the heart to say, as Mrs. Surly was much in the habit of saying,--

"A young lady, twelve years old, climbing an apple-tree! Laws a ma.s.sy! I pity your ma--what a sight of trainin'clock she must ha' wasted on you!"

"It looks nice up there," said Winnie, admiringly, looking up with his mouth open; "I'm acomin'clock up."

"Very well," said Gypsy.

Winnie a.s.sailed a low-hanging bough, and crawled half way up, where he stopped.

"Why don't you come?" said Gypsy.

"Oh, I--well, I think I like it better down here. You can see the gra.s.s, and things. There's a black gra.s.shopper here, too."

"What do you want, anyway?" asked Gypsy, taking a few spasmodic st.i.tches on a long, white seam; "I'm busy. I can't talk to little boys when I'm sewing."

"Oh, I guess I don't want anythin'clock, very much," said Winnie, folding his arms composedly, as if he had seated himself for the day; "I'm five years old."

Down went Gypsy's work, and a whole handful of pink and white blossoms came fluttering into Winnie's eyes.

"How am I going to sew?" said Gypsy, despairingly; "you're so exactly in the right place to be hit. I don't believe Mrs. Surly herself could help s...o...b..lling you."

"Mrs. Surly s...o...b..ll! Why, I never saw her. Wouldn't it be just funny?"

"Winnie Breynton, _will_ you please to go away?"

"I say, Gypsy,--if you cut off a gra.s.shopper's wings, and frow him in a milk-pan, what would he do?" remarked Winnie, inclining to metaphysics, as was Winnie's custom when he wasn't wanted. Gypsy took several severe st.i.tches, and made no answer.

"Gypsy--if somebody builded a fire inside of me and made steam, couldn't I draw a train of cars?"

"Look here--Gyp., when a cat eats up a mouse----"

Winnie forgot what he was aiming at, just there, coughed, and began again.

"Samson could have drawed a train of cars, anyway."

"Oh, Winnie Breynton!"

"Well, if he had a steam-leg, he'd be jest as good as an engine--_wouldn't_ I like to seen him!" Just then a branch struck Winnie's head with decidedly more emphasis than the handful of blossoms, and Winnie slid to the ground, and remarked, with dignity, that he was sorry he couldn't stay longer. He would come again another day. About half way up the walk, he stopped, and turned leisurely round.

"Oh--Gypsy! Mother want's to know where's the key of the china-closet she let you have. She's in a great hurry. That's what I come down for; I s'posed there was something or nuther."

"Why, Winnie Breynton! and you've been sitting there all this----"